Sadly Singing Sly
by Teenbat
Summary: He's handsome and charming, but something in his past has made him abide by a different set of rules. And these rules, while at a glance are infinitely dark, make him immensely likeable. By the way, he's a serial killer.


Ah, the moon. It brightened the landscape almost as well as the sun could. And it brought joy. Joy, joy, joy. To most, at least, but not all. Not the ones lucky enough to taste the sharp end of my Cane. But their lack of joy brought me joy. Well, it brought me something that I assume would be called joy in others. I don't really _feel_, so I have to fake stuff like that. It's too bad that they would find solace in the afterlife. Their bodies rotted while their minds, or _spirits_ if you must, got to go on. Even if that place was one filled with fire and brimstone. Not that I believe in that sort of thing, but they always seem to be praying to some god or other deity once they realize that they won't be going home to their pregnant wives, girlfriends, boyfriends… mothers.

Did I pride myself as a widow-er? No, of course not. But I didn't pride myself as anything. I was doing what I did because I had to. I had something inside. A Need. A Silent Watcher. My master. No, I was the master. I was the one feeding the animal, the _pet _inside. But that pet had the strength to rip my face off. Figuratively, of course, but by figuratively freeing myself of face, it would cause me to literally lop off my lineament. Lineament being my visage, of course. Ah English, you tickle me so.

The Need was strong now. I had been watching him for a while now. Weeks, in fact. He was a monster, if you compare him to the general _innocent _populace. Compared to me, he was a nuisance. Maybe less. But that was excuse enough. I say excuse, but that's really the only way I can describe it. Everything is relative. Does someone who likes to take little children away from their parents deserve to die? Of course, say some; throw him in jail, say others. Absolutely, says I.

Am I rambling? Am I talking at all? Is this a memoir, or an auto-biography? A biography written in the first person? Or am I just insane? A psychiatrist would definitely answer that one pretty quick. Based on their answer, I would have to pick more than one of them. A literal multiple choice.

Children are great. I don't like them for their cuteness, cleverness, or naivety. I think that the correct word is "innocence". Put the latter two on a scale, and they would weigh even depending on who's looking, I suppose. They don't know what they're doing. Or if they do, they don't know it's wrong. Or if they do, they don't know that wrong is bad. Or if they do, they are just being "a little naughty". Naughty is good, I suppose. At least, according to most of the world. A quick search of anyone's internet history would show that.

I saw him through the window. The _church _window. Yes, he was a church-going man. And a priest at that. Makes you wonder how Father determines how many Hail Marys you have to do. Is he comparing your sins to his? Is he then essentially damning you because he is giving himself what they call a "normal amount" in order to justify himself? Another reason why I don't believe in a higher being. You'd think he or she or it would strike down anybody like this the moment they stood up to the pulpit. You'd think they would strike _me_ down.

Maybe he or she or it is a humorous god. I'd be fine with that.

He left the building, ruffling the hair of a possible future victim. A boy of no more than eight. I would save him this night. Hopefully, if everything went right. Or at least well. I readied my Cane, twirling it in my hands, feeling the rough wood pull against the rubber gloves, snapping as they were set back in place.

As the priest came nearer, the Need grew stronger. Coming in like a wave, but not receding back to the ocean. A high tide. The moon would only go on after he tasted the cold bite of metal that I could provide. Along with this figurative moon came more and more real joy; as real, if not more so, than the joy that the moon already brought every night it shone on the Miami skyline.

He was almost here, but just as I readied myself to sit up, the door of a parked van slid open and a dog in a blue jumpsuit stepped out, fingers pinching a cigarette or some other smoke-able delicacy. The ember lit up as he took a puff, illuminating the priest's face with a red that almost mimicked the blood that would soon be spilt.

I was spoiling it for myself. I didn't want to speak, think, be quoted too soon, like a kid on a first date who was expecting something that may or may not come, just to… well, public bathrooms are closed off for more than just one reason.

The priest shared another word or two with the possible-janitor before shaking his hand, smiling, then turning to continue his "walk to the chair." Not that he knew that. Obviously, or he wouldn't be smiling with such fervor. That would be unsettling, right?

He finally made it to his car and opened the door. He didn't even have the time to buckle his seatbelt before I lunged forward, wrapping the golden C around his neck. He didn't even jump. I pulled back tight enough to keep him from moving, but not hard enough to break anything. He couldn't die just yet. That would be anti-climactic. And hard to hide. Nothing like a darkly dressed… someone coming out of the back of somebody's car just to nonchalantly shove them to the passenger seat and drive away. Even more so when this stranger was wearing a silken mask over their head.

"Drive." The priest didn't comply. He just rasped half a breath and stared at me through the rear-view mirror. "You're mine now, you son-of-a-bitch, so drive!" I may have pushed it too much. Faking emotion for so long can cause even me to get intense with my language. He slowly lifted his hands up and put them on 10 and 2. That was good, but he stopped there. Still stared at me. "What, never seen a man in a mask before, or do you not have mirrors at home?"

He tilted his head back to face the road. "Where-" he started, before I yanked on the Cane.

"No talking. Just start driving." He did, coughing and wheezing every few minutes. Good, I didn't want him to get comfortable. There were no tricks, no hesitations. He followed the directions as I gave them. As we neared the destination, I felt his sweat trickling onto my hand from the Cane. The green glow from his radio lit up his face enough that I could see the perspiration all over it. He knew this road, and he half-thought that I knew. No, I couldn't know. How could I know? He was so careful to cover his tracks, to bury the bodies… Right here.

"Right here. Stop." His foot smashed the pedal. Jerking us to halt, the small chirp of the brake pads echoed through the glade. "Leave the headlights on. Get out." He rigidly opened the door, and I could hear a shudder escape his lips. I opened my door as well, maneuvering my hands to keep the Cane around his neck as we both left the car. The moist ground felt soft below _my_ feet, though I knew that the priest couldn't feel it. He was too stiff, too scared to feel anything but the inevitable pounding of his heart against his chest. "What a beautiful little shack. Don't you agree?" His headlights shown on the broad side of it, right where the garden used to be. Now it was a huge pile of dirt. And seven little holes. "They're each big enough to fit, what, a child, would you say?"

He began to cry. I yanked hard on the Cane, harder than he thought he could live through, pulling him almost to ground. "Wouldn't you say?!" I shouted in his face.

"Plea-hea-hease! Please, God! Let me go!" I punched him in the mouth.

"That never saved anybody." His eyes were streaming with tears and pulsing as the blood poured from his mouth. "You have to do exactly as I say. You _have _to." He understood. He locked gaze with me, and I let my Cane slip off of his neck. He stood right, facing me. It was a good minute before I decided to continue. "Into the house." He raised a hand halfway to his face before dropping it again. We walked to the house, his head hung low, looking at his feet. Before we entered, he raised his head and looked in. I poked him with the tip of the Cane, knocking him slightly off balance, but he caught himself. In the house.

There, on a table were seven dirty children. "Look." He shook his head, audibly sniffling. "_Look_."

He raised his head and looked, one eye open. "No."

"Yes."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

He screamed, "NOOOOO!"

I latched onto his neck with the Cane, and his scream was cut short. He fell to his knees.

"What a terrible mess you've made."

* * *

_There you go. Any and all reviews, including flames, are appreciated. Brownie points if you can get the (fairly obvious) inspiration._


End file.
